Lunch with the Deadly Dozen: A brand new totally brilliant cozy crime novel

By Peter Berry

A secret group of retired experts hunt a methodical serial killer, in this compelling debut crime thriller set in London . . .

Widowed and in his sixties, Thomas Quinn has been invited to lunch by Lexington Smith, the leader of a covert team who call themselves The Twelve. When Thomas decides to join group, he finds himself united with other retired specialists—from a surgeon to a locksmith to a cabbie—in a quest to capture and assassinate a killer targeting homeless victims on London’s transport system.

Also on the team is Monica Lodhia, a retired chemistry professor with a tragic past to whom Quinn feels drawn. As the body count rises, Thomas, Monica, and the crew try to determine a pattern. But can they protect this vulnerable population by identifying a predator before he strikes again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9781504094344

Book preview

1

‘A nd then, finally, there is Monica. I have deliberately left her until last because she is, as you’ll hopefully discover, rather special.’

Thomas Quinn studied his dining companion with interest, having looked up from the half-eaten contents of his plate, originally filled with the lightest, most flavoursome sage and butter gnocchi he had ever tasted. He must have passed this small Italian restaurant with the slightly faded, hand-painted signage hundreds of times over the years and never ventured in.

He couldn’t fathom exactly why that was, yet his suspicion was that his late wife of almost forty years had never been a particular fan of pasta. Not when going out anyway. Alice had always been fairly conservative in her choices and had tended to prefer her own home-cooked food. On the odd occasion during their mundanely happy marriage when they had decided to go out to eat, Thomas and Alice had often left home with the intention of finding somewhere new to experience and yet somehow always ended up at the same Thai place. The owners, two brothers, were always welcoming and knew what Alice liked to order. Alice enjoyed the familiarity.

The other reason Thomas had never stepped inside this Italian restaurant until now was that it had always seemed unnervingly full, both at lunchtime and in the evenings. If he was honest, it also looked a little loud with, he estimated, around fifty customers all chattering away excitedly to each other, competing for volume.

This particular afternoon, however, late on an overcast Tuesday in mid-October with the light already fading, it was virtually empty. In fact, the only people in the room were Simone the elderly owner and, for this afternoon at least, head waiter, sommelier and, for all Thomas knew, the one doing the washing up; a chef whom Thomas had never seen, although the quality of the food suggested that she or he was a remarkable talent; and the softly-spoken, erudite eighty-one-year-old man seated opposite. His name was Lexington Smith and he had already polished off some tomato and basil bruschetta as a starter and a generous plate of risotto Milanese despite having done most of the talking for the best part of an hour.

A week earlier, Thomas had returned home from Portobello Road, his local place for fresh vegetables and bread, to find the telephone ringing. The landline. This was most unusual because everyone he knew would ordinarily contact him via his mobile phone; even in his late sixties, Thomas did his best to keep up with technology, if only to be able to see what his eight-year-old granddaughters were up to on social media. He had considered disconnecting the landline many times since Alice’s death, but it had remained a comforting fixture under the mirror in the hallway, rarely troubling anyone and steadfastly deterring cold callers with its friendly but definite answerphone message.

On this occasion, however, something made Thomas pick up the receiver. He had momentarily thought it may be a distant aunt, one of those Christmas card list mainstays, calling to announce the death of an equally distant uncle. It wasn’t.

‘Thomas Quinn,’ the quiet, somewhat theatrical voice had announced confidently. ‘My name is Lexington Smith. I should very much like to buy you a late lunch or an early dinner, depending on which way you look at it. I appreciate that this may appear a little forward on my part, but I do hope you’ll agree to my invitation. I have an important proposal for you, and before you start to worry, I’m not selling anything. Trust me.’

Lexington had gone on to explain, in the broadest and least specific terms, that he was part of a group of retired specialists who had an undercover role in the general day to day running of the city. ‘I suppose I am the leader,’ he explained humbly, ‘as much as anyone is, although I try hard not to come across as some kind of authoritarian enigma. There are quite enough of those around as I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m afraid I can’t really go any further into detail until we meet. The conversation we require is categorically of the face-to-face variety. Does next Tuesday suit? Perhaps brillig – that’s 4pm in the new money – at La Stella on Moscow Road. I’m sure you know it. It’s barely a ten-minute walk from Colville Square.’

‘How do you know where I live?’ asked Thomas with a mild degree of concern, although there was something about Lexington’s voice that he found entirely unthreatening. Calming, even.

‘I simply looked you up in the increasingly slim phone book,’ Lexington replied. ‘Hence the landline call. Of course, I have known your address for some time as well as your mobile number, but as I am a child of the 1940s, I still cling on to some of the old ways. Often, they remain the better option, don’t you agree?’

The following overcast Tuesday afternoon, Thomas made his way through the delicate lattice of streets around Westbourne Grove towards La Stella. His mood was buoyant yet with a constant hum of the low-level melancholy with which he had become familiar over recent years. It lingered like fog over him, thickening from time to time into something that alarmed him.

A conversation over the weekend with his daughter, the latest in a series of gently nudging talks, had put Thomas in an upbeat state of mind. Emily had pointed out that it was almost six years since Alice’s death and, although her father hadn’t exactly been moping around his house on his own for all that time, it was perhaps a good moment to branch out a little bit and explore new opportunities. ‘Maybe join a book club or something,’ had been her exact words, delivered kindly and with a forehead kiss.

He hadn’t mentioned to Emily the strange phone call; Lexington had suggested he keep their chat secret. Nonetheless, his daughter’s enthusiasm had given Thomas an unexpected impetus to at least hear what was being mysteriously proposed.

Peering through the window, he could see that Lexington had already arrived and was seated at a table in the farthest corner of the restaurant despite apparently being the only customer. Seeing Thomas, he gave a cheery wave and gestured for Simone to unlock the door. Thomas, knowing Lexington’s age, had expected his host to be frail, but the man who greeted him with a warm handshake was nothing of the sort. Lexington was tall and slim with a kind face and a radiant smile. His thick, grey, shoulder-length hair was neatly combed and he wore a dark three-piece suit without a tie. Thomas thought that he resembled a distinguished former movie star and felt mildly underdressed in jeans and a V-neck.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Simone.’ Lexington beamed as the aroma of garlic and fresh herbs permeated the room from the direction of what Thomas guessed was the kitchen. ‘He opened this place in 1971 when he was merely a child and I have been a sporadic yet generous visitor ever since. I believe I may even have been here on his first day.’

‘I was twenty-four, Signor Lexington,’ scowled Simone jovially. He turned to Thomas, gripped him by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. ‘So lovely to welcome you, Signor Quinn. I arrived from Amalfi with only a few lire in my pocket, but I worked hard and here we are. There were so few Italian restaurants in London at that time. Now, they are everywhere. But we hope that we can still provide the best pasta and risotto you can find north of Rome. We have had the pleasure of many wonderful guests over the years as you can see. You have dined with us before?’

Thomas, although slightly thrown by the kissing, pointed out that he’d always seen the place full otherwise he’d have surely visited. He decided against mentioning Alice’s aversion to restaurant pasta in case it caused offence. He was keen to make a good first impression. At Simone’s direction, he looked around the walls of La Stella, which were adorned with dozens of photographs of film and music stars who had clearly eaten there and loved the place enough to return and sign their images. A brief glance around the room revealed that previous patrons had included Frank Sinatra, Dustin Hoffman, Robert de Niro, Cher, Elton John, Oprah Winfrey and Tom Hanks. As they sat down to eat, Thomas noted that just above Lexington’s head was a black and white photograph of Marlon Brando taken, Thomas estimated, at some point in the seventies between The Godfather and Apocalypse Now.

After they had ordered and after Simone had uncorked a bottle of vintage red wine, Lexington explained that, for the last five years, he had been the leader of a select group of twelve people, all retired and each with a specific talent from their former careers, which contributed to the success of their area of business. Whenever a vacancy arose, a new member of the group, which had been in existence for almost 200 years and currently comprised eight men and four women, was invited to join after being distantly monitored and vetted over a long period. So far, nobody invited had ever refused. Today was Thomas’s turn.

‘Timing is key,’ Lexington explained. ‘The group has been watching you for a while, but you have not been ready. It was entirely possible that you would never have been ready; the group watches a number of potential candidates at any one time because, at our age, one recognises the dangers of just the solitary, precarious basket of eggs, if you understand me.’

Thomas nodded, curious. ‘You were spying on me?’ he asked with the mildest sense of unease.

‘I prefer to think of it as observing from a distance. Simply to ensure that by the time we come to this particular part of our journey, nobody’s time is wasted. It’s broadly the same as when you used to visit different athletics clubs during your career to check out the opposition.’ Lexington reached for a grissino. ‘When Alice died in 2015, you took a baby step closer to being ready, but if we had indulged in this delicious meal at any point over the last few years, then you would have surely turned my offer down. Of that I am certain. Like many others, you were channelling your grief elsewhere. Fortunately, there was no appropriate vacancy until recently so the situation did not arise. Now, I imagine you’d be keen to know what our little specialisation might be. Would I be right?’

Thomas glanced up at the photograph of the middle-aged Brando, glaring ominously. ‘Yes please,’ he replied. He felt certain it would be something to do with charity work, or possibly some sort of board game collective, but that would be fine. He was at a loose end much of the time anyway. And he was rather partial to Cluedo.

Lexington leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. A broad smile formed across his face.

‘We assassinate criminals,’ he said, calmly.

2

At that moment, Thomas was aware of a faint yet persistent knocking on the restaurant door. Lexington’s change in eyeline confirmed it. Thomas turned and saw a couple of anxious-looking women peering through the door at them. One was waving plaintively. His first thought was that they might be part of Lexington’s mysterious group, but he dismissed the idea as they were too young – Lexington had already listed the four women, including Monica, who were involved, and they were all in their sixties or older. These people at the door were clearly younger if not by more than a fortunate decade.

Simone unlocked the door and, as politely as he could, asked what they wanted. It quickly became clear that the women were American, were flying home the following day, and had been desperate to eat at La Stella before they departed, only to be thwarted by the restaurant’s online booking system, which had shown no availability. Deciding on a whim to pay a flying visit just in case of a cancellation, they had seen two gentlemen doing what appeared to be dining when the restaurant was meant to be closed. They decided to chance their luck. Simone, however, was charmingly yet firmly dashing their hopes.

Lexington rose from his seat, leaving the word ‘assassinate’ hovering above it like an elephantine hummingbird. ‘Would you please excuse me for a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll just sort this small matter out.’ He strode purposefully but with a slight limp towards the trio, now engaged in some form of polite stand-off. ‘Do I detect the harmonious vowels of a North Carolina accent?’ he asked with a knowing grin.

The two women looked up, star-struck. ‘Why, y-yes,’ stuttered the taller of the two. ‘Wilmington. Do you know it?’

Lexington held out a long-fingered hand, which the first American gently clasped. ‘Intimately,’ he gushed. ‘Lexington Smith, at your service. And may I please ask your names?’

‘I’m Brianna Andrews and this is Madison Kowalski,’ said the shorter and more flamboyantly dressed of the two. Both of them giggled, all thoughts of food momentarily superseded by both events and charm.

Lexington straightened and offered his hand to the second American. ‘Madison. After the Avenue. How delightful. Just like myself. We are nomenclature twins, merely two blocks between us!’

‘Oh my gosh!’ said Madison, suddenly entranced to the point of light-headedness.

‘Oh yes. My parents conceived me in a New York apartment in 1938 and decided to name me after the location. I’m just eternally relieved they weren’t staying on Fifth Avenue.’ Madison and Brianna paused for a moment while they connected the geographic dots and then simultaneously burst into laughter. ‘Now, I understand you wish to dine and yet there is no available table. I may be able to help. It’s just past five and I shall be done with my private table within the hour. I know that it is free for the rest of the evening and so, with Simone’s blessing, I bequeath it to you.’

Lexington looked to the Italian for approval and Simone responded with an acquiescent wink. ‘In addition, your meal will be my treat,’ he continued. ‘It’s the least I can do for residents of the Old North State. Now all we need to do is to arrange what you can do for the next hour. Have you been to Primrose Hill?’

Madison and Brianna both shook their heads, seemingly unable to form coherent words.

‘Then that is your next hour beautifully occupied.’ Lexington leaned out of the restaurant doorway and waved ostentatiously to a London taxi that was parked opposite. ‘Martin!’ he called, musically, as if summoning a cat in for its dinner. The cabbie, an older man with a grey, neatly shaped beard and a shaved head, wound down his window. ‘Martin, dear. These ladies are visitors from Wilmington, North Carolina. I’m sure you know it. They are dining here as my guests in one hour, but until then the city is their playground. Could you bear to please take them to Primrose Hill and then park up and show them the glorious view? They’ve never been and we must rectify this oversight. It’s a mild evening so the view should be spectacular as it gets dark.’

The cabbie turned on the ignition, swung the taxi round so that it was just outside La Stella, then got out of his driver’s seat to open the passenger door for the tourists. ‘Your carriage awaits,’ he growled with a lupine grin.

Lexington asked whether the cabbie had anything appropriate as a soundtrack to their journey. ‘Oklahoma 1969 Original Broadway Cast Soundtrack good enough?’ Martin grumbled.

‘Give my regards to the Bellamy Mansion Museum when you get back to Wilmington,’ called Lexington. He cheerily waved the Americans on their way before returning to the table where Thomas was attempting to make sense of what had just happened, as well as process the earlier assassination information.

‘That was… generous,’ he said, as Lexington lowered himself gingerly back into his chair. ‘And, if I may say so, charismatic.’

‘I try to engage in a random act of kindness every day. The others in our group do the same. Charity work, volunteering, bake sales. It helps to mitigate the more unpleasant aspects of our work.’

‘And were you really named after Lexington Avenue?’

Lexington sipped his 2010 Barolo with an expression of deep satisfaction. ‘Oh, absolutely. My parents were in New York before the war; my father was a diplomat like me and my mother was a writer. She decided on the name as she wanted something a bit more memorable and exotic to go with Smith. My father wanted Winston, which would have been a disaster thanks to Orwell. I met him once. George. In 1947. I was nine. He came to a party that my parents were hosting in their London house and he offered me a Liquorice Allsort before I was ushered off to bed. Anyway, where were we?’

‘Assassination, I think,’ said Thomas with no small degree of uncertainty.

‘Oh yes, of course…’

When Thomas returned home just after 6.30pm that evening, his overwhelming feeling was one of exhilaration, if tinged with fear. On the plus side, the nagging melancholy appeared to have subsided a bit and that in itself was something of a relief. The emptiness of the house felt slightly less overwhelming, his familiar patchwork of emotions shifting perceptibly. Thomas poured himself a whisky as, somehow, the day seemed to require a toast even if there was, as usual, nobody with whom to share it.

Lexington had, over the course of an hour, explained how The Twelve, as they were informally known, were formed in 1831 as a covert organisation working alongside the newly initiated police force to quietly and efficiently eliminate certain criminals. Originally The Twelve were mostly former members of the military, however, the group quickly became so adept and inventive at both remaining undercover and, at the same time, exterminating their targets without suspicion or evidence, that soon The Twelve became open to men of all backgrounds who were getting on in years.

Around the 1890s, the then leader of The Twelve, one Maurice Arthurs, decided to extend the employment criteria not only to other skill sets, but also to women – The Twelve was always ahead of its time in terms of social change. The organisation remained secret, merrily dispatching the more unsavoury members of society throughout the twentieth century. By the time Lexington sat down with Thomas at La Stella, the group included a former surgeon, an eminent linguist, a retired plumber, an ex-pathologist and a cabbie, Martin – ‘You’ve no idea how important it has been to have someone who knows their way around the city and whose vehicle has such a nimble turning circle’.

According to Lexington, the only types of people who never seemed appropriate were politicians – ‘The relevant skill set simply isn’t there with most of them, and those who might have a semi-chance seem to have a moral aversion to the whole killing element’ – and writers, ‘especially poets. First of all, they rarely actually retire, but secondly, they’re far too easily distracted by fauna to be of any use in the field, as it were. Assassination requires focus, as you’ll find out. One’s gaze simply cannot be drawn by crows or pigeons when one is meant to be concentrating on humans.’

And, of course, there was Monica; one of four women currently within The Twelve. Born in Gujarat in the early 1950’s, Monica Lodhia had been one of the most renowned chemists of her generation. Her unrivalled knowledge of poisons and corrosives was the envy of universities across the world. She had retired early in 2012 after serving out the final years of her career as Head of Chemistry at Middlesex University. Naturally, she had been on the radar of The Twelve for many years and yet there had been considerable opposition to her eventually being approached.

Some within the group had passionately argued that she was far too damaged on account of her past. Lexington had personally campaigned hard to invite her anyway on the basis that the tragedies in her life made Monica even more likely to thrive and become indispensable to The Twelve’s operations. To him, Monica was uniquely placed to provide expert knowledge as well as possessing a steely determination, which other candidates at the time lacked.

Naturally, Thomas had many questions. Did The Twelve use guns? Absolutely not. Nor knives. Their methods were always far more subtle and generally always had been, except in emergencies. ‘In the early days,’ Lexington had explained, ‘most of the victims ended up in the river or in burning disused buildings after first being knocked out with laudanum or opium. Unnecessary suffering on the part of the victims has been frowned upon, especially since the 1970s when The Twelve went through a bit of a brief hippie period. Over time, the methods of dispatch have become more refined. These days it’s more likely to look like a suicide or alternatively we have ways to make people disappear completely.’

Had Lexington himself assassinated many people? Yes, he’d had involvement of some kind in twenty-three cases since joining the group just under twenty years before – ‘We’re not exactly prolific,’ he had admitted matter-of-factly. ‘It’s very much quality over quantity. In recent years, my role has been more administrative than active, but in my younger days I personally bumped off fourteen or so.’

Over coffee, and just before the two Americans returned safely from their unscheduled trip to NW1, Thomas had agreed that he would fill The Twelve’s vacancy, seduced in part by Lexington’s persuasion, but also simply by the opportunity to meet some new people. If nothing else, he felt it sounded like a far better use of his spare time than board games. Whether he actually had the capacity to assassinate was uncertain to him, but Lexington was unwaveringly confident, assuring Thomas that he wouldn’t have been chosen otherwise. ‘Our meeting is not an accident,’ he had stated with calm clarity. ‘I’ve done a few of these now and I’ve never yet been wrong. I’ve been anticipating our meeting for a very long time.’

‘Why me?’ had been the burning question. Lexington’s answer was enticingly unclear.

‘Have you read Solzhenitsyn?’ he asked. Thomas confessed with embarrassment that although he was reasonably well read for someone whose background was primarily in the sporting arena, twentieth century Russian novels remained very much a grey area. ‘Then I would recommend The Gulag Archipelago when you have a spare week or so. The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. Never a truer sentence written.

‘As for why you,’ Lexington continued, ‘your humility, first of all. As you’ll find out, I have spent a long time crafting The Twelve into a group that is free of arrogance. Devoid of ego. I simply cannot have any sense of gung-ho when it comes to such serious matters. That’s not to say it isn’t fun, as you’ll also find out. But…’ at this point Lexington leant forward and looked deep into Thomas’s eyes, ‘as for the other main reason, I suspect you know.’

3

The following morning, the reality of Thomas’s decision hit home with the arrival by courier of a new mobile phone at Colville Square. Eleven numbers had already been programmed into it and there was an accompanying handwritten note from Lexington asking Thomas to check his WhatsApp.

There were eleven new messages in the solitary chat group, the first of which was an introductory message from Lexington thanking Thomas for his company the previous day, congratulating him on his wise decision to join The Twelve and inviting the others to welcome him as warmly as they possibly could. Lexington’s text also gave the briefest overview of Thomas’s career in sports training, culminating in the success of three of his athletes at the 2012 London Olympics. Mention of it made Thomas feel both humbled and exhilarated in equal measure.

The subsequent ten messages were all variations on a welcoming theme from each of the other members. They ranged in length from a couple of words – ‘Alright, mate?’ from a Terry Wilson whom Thomas recalled being a former locksmith with a passion for baking – to a small essay from a linguist named Belinda Olorenshaw who greeted him in eight languages before going on to express how excited she was to have a new person to work with. Monica’s message, the last to be sent, was of particular interest. ‘I simply cannot wait to meet you, Thomas,’ it read. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

Thomas took the new phone into his kitchen to make a cup of black coffee while deciding how to respond. As it would be his first message, he wanted it to be friendly, but not overly so. He stared at the messages as he slowly sipped his coffee, then he began typing before rejecting his first draft, deleting it and starting again. It was the fifth draft which he decided to send. It read simply, ‘Thank you all for your kind words of welcome. I look forward to meeting you all in person, whenever that may be’.

Lexington had suggested that, as The Twelve had no ongoing project, Thomas might like to meet with various members in smaller groups or even with individuals. He had even intimated that his first acquaintance could be with a plumber named David Latham as he was ‘probably the friendliest of the bunch. Not that the rest of us are unfriendly, you understand. It’s simply that David is more… immediate. You cannot help but warm to him.’

After lunch, however, a new text from Lexington indicated that there would be a full meeting of The Twelve the following morning as a new case was pending. The meeting would take place at one of The Twelve’s safe houses not far from Thomas’s house in Notting Hill Gate. The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police would also be in attendance as she was the